


Exquisite Boy

by MudaMuda



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Ancient History, Ancient Rome, Childhood Friends, Germany, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Multi, No Smut, Pedophilia, Platonic Romance, Scotland, young!england, young!france, young!scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-05-04 08:42:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14589252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MudaMuda/pseuds/MudaMuda
Summary: Before France was France, there was a boy he loved. To be taught the ways of love came at a price.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This one is pretty heavy, and very experimental, so read at your own risk.  
> The only sex in this fic is implied, but I'm rating this mature just in case, because the nature of the sex is really objectionable.  
> I tried to keep this relatively historically accurate, but not 100%. As usual for me, plot supercedes historical accuracy.
> 
> Finally, a note about Scotland's name: 'Alasdair' is the scottish form, 'Alistair' is anglicized. I use the former in this fic.

By now, Gallia’s child understands Latin well enough.

 _“Sta, puer,”_ Rome says, and his newest conquest halts while crossing the hall.

“Come here,” Rome says, “and let me look at you.”

The boy puts his nose in the air and saunters over like it’s beneath him to make the effort.

Francis is a boy, but vastly different from the unremarkable page boys, or the serving boys, or the runners who deliver messages. Rome takes one of his slender wrists in hand and pulls him closer.

In his long life, Rome has never encountered a child such as this one, and he doesn’t know what to do with him.

Physically, he’s exquisite. A rarity. Pale and delicate, with hair like woven gold. It spills over his round cheeks, and curtains his blue eyes. His limbs are faun-like, but for a child on the cusp of puberty, he’s graceful.

His moods change by the hour. Haughty and stubborn, he stamps his feet when he’s made to do something he doesn’t want. His personality is marked by such unnecessary dramatism that the sight of him flipping his hair is enough to incite anger, for all the effort he takes in appearing disgusted by everything. And certainly, he has a right to be disgusted. It’s his insistence to disobey that stirs a tempest in Rome.

The thought crosses his mind, as it did when he first captured him, to do to this child what was done to his mother. So there is no question as to whom he belongs. He looks so much like his mother… he’s what remains of the land, that Rome can do with as he pleases, can influence to his liking.

But this thought is put aside. The victory is still fresh, after all, and Rome needs time to consider if that’s wise.

If he can bring himself to do it at all.

For now, he leaves his new servant be. Dismisses him. Banishes unsavory thoughts.

\- - - - -  


Once he is sure he is completely unaccounted for, Francis strays from the villa and into the city. He is tired and angry. All his pride has diminished, represented only in the scraps of his culture that linger.

He could cry, but he’s cried enough. Tears are no longer sufficient to improve his mood.

So he wanders, wishing his mother’s lands were still hers, and not that barbarian’s.

While his eyes are cast down, and his thoughts are wandering, he bumps straight into another person.

The collision sends them both to the ground. When Francis jerks his head up in anger, he’s taken aback by the sight of the person on the ground in front of him.

His red hair is like a torch, a beacon, for all it stands out in the crowd. He looks to be the same age as Francis, physically.

When their eyes meet, there is a silent realization that neither are exactly human. The redheaded boy’s eyes narrow, and it’s clear he’s as confused as Francis is as to _what_ the other represents.

If he can be trusted with his name.

The moment passes, and the redheaded boy smiles broadly and extends a hand.

“You should be looking where you’re going,” he says, in imperfect Latin. Francis wonders about his accent.

“I’m from the north,” says the redhead.

“Further north than here?”

“From across the sea.”

Francis draws a short breath in surprise. “A northern barbarian.”

The boy scowls. “Hey, Rome called your country barbaric before he conquered it. I’d rather be barbaric than conquered.”

“I don't know what else to call you.”

“By my _name_. Conquered or not, you've already got those Roman sensibilities, and I don't like that. You were an outsider once, but you changed. Calling outsiders barbarians means you already see yourself as part of the empire.”

A second flashes by, and the redhead is wiping blood from his lip.

Francis rubs his bruised fist. He feels better, but not much.

Especially when the redheaded boy starts laughing at him.

“You know nothing about me! I hate it here!” Francis protests.

“That’s not it. You didn’t look like you had it in you!” the redheaded boy shouts, delighted. “Let's be friends. I’m Alasdair.”

“I’m... Francis,” Francis finds himself answering back, almost involuntarily.

Alasdair jumps to his feet and motions for Francis to come with him.

A bit bewildered, Francis falls into step alongside him, walking faster than usual to meet Alasdair’s long strides.

Rome had forbade him from talking to barbarians. Of course, this threat was of little concern to Francis.

Francis understands that he is taking a risk, seeing this boy from a tribe outside of the empire.

But Alasdair thinks it’s humorous more than anything else, the idea that the people he represents are uncivilized, in Rome’s eyes.

“Said that about yours as well, did he?” he asks, once they’ve sat down in the grass together, out of the way of pedestrians. “That bastard Rome’s got a thing or two coming. But that’s a matter for another day.”

He uproots a fistful of grass and throws it away idly, and then starts asking Francis what games he likes to play, like Rome is totally inconsequential. Heat rises in Francis’ chest, and he glares.

“I don’t have time to play games,” he says, turning away.

“You’re boring,” Alasdair teases, sticking out his tongue.

Francis wants to hide his face.

“No I’m not. I have to worry. Rome is--”

“And I said, Rome has a thing or two coming,” Alasdair repeats.

To Francis’ surprise, his heart grows lighter at Alasdair’s utter lack of concern with Rome. But it’s not enough to dull the ache completely. He can’t tell yet if Alasdair is unconcerned because he’s strong, or simply overconfident.

“Even so…”

“Are you a girl?” interrupts Alasdair again. “You look like a girl.”

“I’m not a girl.”

“But you’re Gaul. Gaul was a woman.”

“That was my mother,” Francis says, in a too-quiet voice.

“Then, who are you?”

The grass below them starts to blur. Francis wipes his eyes quickly, but not quickly enough, because Alasdair notices, and a silence presses down between them.

“I’m fine. I can take care of myself,” Francis says, like he has something to prove to this boy he just met.

Alasdair changes the subject.

“There’s not many I know. Of us. Our kind," he says quietly. "Just my brothers, mostly. That I’ve seen. You should meet them sometime. They look kind of like me.”

Francis looks him over.

Alasdair is fair-skinned like Francis is, but taller, with freckles the color of his hair spattered across his face and limbs.

He has a tough, self-confident air, like he won’t take orders from anyone. But he’s not unkind.

A smile tugs at the corner of Francis’ mouth.

Just being shown kindness is something he had been missing lately.


	2. Chapter 2

“Again,” Rome calls from above. He stands over him like an ogre, with his wooden sword clutched in his hairy fist.

Grumbling, Francis picks himself up and brushes the dirt off his tunic. Rubs his aching wrist and takes up his fallen sword. Rome’s words echo in his head, taunting him:

_All my charges will learn to fight._

Francis knows how to fight, but not the way Rome expects.

And of course he can’t match Rome. Rome is huge.

Rome seems to find humor in making him struggle. Francis doesn’t fully realize this until he has him pair up to train with boys more his size while he watches idly from the sidelines, drinking wine.

Maybe Rome was testing his strength, making sure he was subdued. Because, given the right weapons and the right situation, Francis could take down a fully grown man. Rome has seen him do it. But Rome also isn’t an ordinary man.

Either way, Francis lost.

The fight with the boys has devolved into wrestling, and Francis is tired of getting dirty and dusty, and having his hair pulled needlessly.

He doesn’t have to prove a thing to Rome.

He extracts himself from the brawl, brushes himself off, and straightens his tunic.

He’s combing his hair through his fingers, when Rome’s voice finds him.

“You’re vain, for a boy.”

“Look who’s talking about vanity,” Francis mutters. He brushes a lock of hair behind his ear and turns to leave.

Rome reaches out and catches him by the arm before he can slip away. Francis tenses, thinking he’s going to strike him, even though he never has.

Instead, Rome lifts him onto his lap. In front of the other boys, this is worse than getting a cuff to the face. He looks like a child. Even if he is, at least physically, this is more than he can bear.

Rome holds him in place comfortably, with his sun-darkened, hairy hand around his waist. With his other hand, he winds a lock of Francis’ hair around his finger.

“Should I treat you like a girl instead?” asks Rome. Judging by his tone, the question is a serious one. The gentle, intimate gesture of playing with his hair becomes almost threatening then, though Francis cannot explain why.

“Don’t touch me,” he murmurs, but doesn’t brush Rome’s hands off.

He looks at Rome’s suntanned features and powerful muscles. The hair that curls from the cleft of his broad chest and forearms is dark.

This is the figure of a conqueror. Strength and intensity are personified in this man.

Francis examines his own reflection in the cup of wine beside Rome.

He is pale and thin. If Rome is a oak… then he is more like the narcissi that grow in the villa gardens.

The way he is, he cannot hope to take back his lands and avenge his mother.

He wonders what will become of him, how he will represent his people, looking the way he does. Looking small and fragile never meant anything before now, but it seemed to mean something to Rome. Even though he tried not to concern himself with Rome’s preferences, he found them inescapable. His position now, as the conquered, served to remind him constantly that he was lacking in something that Rome had.

\-   -  -   -

The conversation had gotten awkward, and Francis had expected him to grow bored of his company and leave, but instead, Alasdair became quiet as well. He gazed up into the sky with a frown.

“I wonder how my brothers are faring,” he muttered.

He jumped up and started away. Francis followed him.

“Your brothers,” Francis said, hurrying after him, trying to get him to say more. Possibly, Francis expressing his worries about his lack of a family had made him worry as well. “Who are they?”

Alasdair squatted down at the riverbank and picked up a rock the size of a walnut. He examined it for a moment, rolling it between his fingers, before he tossed it into the water.

“Ah, **É** ire and Albion? None of their tribes can figure themselves out. Not like mine, you know. And with Rome setting his sight on Albion, it’s only a matter of time…”

He glared at Francis, but in a way that wasn’t directed _at_ Francis. He blinked, and shook his head.

“Ach. He’ll have his fun with Albion but he won’t conquer me. I’m stronger than that brat.”

“That’s why you’re here, then? On the mainland. To spy!” Francis whispered and crouched beside him.

“Aye. Spying, for one thing.”

“And what else?”

Alasdair gives him a sideways smirk. “Aren’t you nosy?”

Francis shrugs.

“What are yours like?” asks Alasdair, suddenly.

“My what?”

“Your people. I’ven’t been through your parts more’n a few times. What are they like?”

Not _were._ Are.

It’s enough to make Francis trust him. He isn’t sure to what extent, but for now, he trusts him. And it’s enough to start the flow of his words, the happy memories in bitter latin. It comes pouring out. And Alasdair listens with surprising sternness, nodding at intervals, until it’s over.

-  -  -  -

 _Salve,_ be well, Francis calls back when they part. Rome’s language is still a blight on his tongue, but it’s the language that brought them together, and that they both understand. Francis makes a promise to himself that he’ll learn the Pictish language, or perhaps Alasdair will learn Gaulish, and then they won’t have to associate themselves with anything Roman while they’re together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was probably my least favorite chapter to write, but it's necessary to get things going...
> 
> Trying to figure out the etymology of the different parts of the ancient British isles (more like tribes during the time of the roman empire) was making me crazy because I couldn’t find any that made sense for the historical time this story is set (eg there wasn’t a latin name for Ireland until a couple hundred years later), so I just used the most… recognizable equivalents.   
> So, Albion is England and Éire is Ireland.
> 
> Also, characterizing everyone in this fic was unexpectedly really hard…  
> I have no idea how to write proto-France or proto-Scotland, because they haven’t really grown into the characters everyone is familiar with yet.  
> Scotland especially is giving me nightmares. In fanon he’s like this sexy, red-haired England clone who smokes and talks in brogue, and that’s not really much to go off of.  
> So I’ve decided to write him like a mini Jamie Fraser from Outlander (like literally everyone else who writes a Scottish character does). We’ll see how that goes.


	3. Chapter 3

The baths are another diversion from Francis’ day to day life.

At his age, he isn’t allowed to bathe with the men, so he washes with the women of the villa. In the wide chamber that resonates with the echoing splash of water, they trade gossip and rumors, news and politics, and word of every other topic imaginable.

There’s something exciting about being a part of this; speaking as he pleases while they give him attention, calling him handsome and clever, promising that he’s going to be an irresistible man when he grows older.

He loves the scents he dabs on his body, and dressing up in beautiful, soft cloth that’s been traded from a far east empire. He loves treating his hair with fragrant oils to keep it soft, and combing it until it shines.

Today, “catamitus” is a word being passed around through the villa, in reference to him. Francis doesn’t understand what it means.

“A beautiful boy, kept for a young man’s pleasures,” is the answer he gets from the women in the baths.

Francis thinks by “young man” they mean Rome. Who’s really more of an old bastard, so it’s a misnomer, but Francis doesn’t know who else they could be talking about. No one else has the right to “keep” him. But he still doesn’t know what they mean by ‘pleasures’. 

“I give him  _ pleasure? _ ” Francis asks doubtfully. The only pleasure Rome seems to take is in humiliating him. Pushing him around.

A chorus of giggles is the response, and Francis thinks it’s the appropriate reaction. 

But they’re sharing glances with each other like they know a secret he doesn’t.

“It is a useful position,” their whispers tell. “One that will give you great opportunities to influence him.”

_ To influence Rome... _

Francis thinks this could be a good thing.

 

After the bath, as he is wandering through the villa, he hears noises coming from Rome’s bedroom _.  _ Soft, secretive noises.

Eager to spy, he cracks the door and peeks inside.

On the  _ lectus  _ is Rome, just returned from the senate, dressed formally in a toga. With him is another man he doesn’t recognize. The man is smaller and more slender, with silky, long, black hair. He has different features, too, unlike Francis has ever seen. He doesn’t look quite like him or Rome. But he’s wearing robes made of the same silk Francis is clothed in. 

He and Rome are together, kissing. 

After a minute of this, Rome lifts up the man’s robes, and pushes his hips between his legs. They move their hips together for a while, swaying like a dance, kissing in between. Francis can’t see what they’re doing beneath the robe; beneath Rome’s toga overlapping to hide their lower bodies.

It’s odd and mesmerising. There’s a moment of adjustment. They move closer, and the dark haired man lifts his leg around Rome’s side.

Rome jerks his hips-- once, twice, the rough movements bouncing the smaller man up. 

One more push, and the man cries out, and it’s an odd sound. Like an animal, raw and wailing.

But he says “ _ give me”  _ in Latin _. Give me! -- _ emphatically, like that.

Rome wraps his arms around him and clutches him. The dark haired man likewise clings to him, and like that, they tremble together, while Rome pushes his hips back and forth; hard and rapid, and the dark haired man groans and rolls his head back.

As he turns over and slides facedown, over the cushions of the  _ lectus _ , and Rome hunches over him, grasping his waist, something sickening and visceral surges through Francis, as he realizes where he’s seen this before.

He must have gasped, because Rome’s head pops up, along with his guests’. 

Before he can duck into hiding, Rome catches his eye, and orders him to stay. The other man tucks his hair behind his ear, curiously following the path of Rome’s attention.

Rome pulls his clothing down and comes over, outside the room. He closes the door on his guest, so it’s just the two of them in the atrium. Francis swallows.

Rome crosses his arms and leans with one shoulder against the wall.

“Watching?” he muses. “I guess you’re at that age, now.” 

He’s not angry at being interrupted. On the contrary, he’s in a good mood.

Francis glares at him, feeling nauseous.

“Why do you hurt people?”

“What?” asks Rome. 

“You were hurting him,” accuses Francis.

Rome cocks an eyebrow. “Hurting? We were making love.”

“Making him love you?” Francis asks bitterly.

This makes Rome laugh very hard. 

“I would think so, after the time I showed him!”

He stops clutching his sides, and his expression changes, as he realizes Francis is serious. He settles into a crouch before Francis, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Why do you think it hurts? Does it look like it does?”

Francis refuses to answer.

“It feels very good, you know,” says Rome.

“For him, too?”

Rome looks bewildered. “Of course. He…”

He makes a vague sliding motion with his hands.

“Do you know about any of this?”

Francis stares at the ground. “About what?”

The man is calling Rome:  _ Who is that? Come back. _

Rome rises and turns back towards the door. 

“I don’t have time to explain, right now,” he says, and returns inside. He shuts the door behind him.

Francis is left not knowing what it means; what the goal of it is.

To show someone you love them.

But _ that,  _ that Rome had done,  couldn’t be love, because--

-   -

Afterwards, Rome watches Sina brush his hair. 

“You pull it so much,” Sina is growling, trying to separate the tangles in it. 

“Because you like it,” says Rome.

Sina grumbles something about being ridden like a horse.

Rome yawns and stretches his limbs. “Are we done already?" he asks. "You have no more Eastern secrets of paradise to share?”

“Shut up,” says Sina pertly. He’s always energetic after they do this.

He’s one of the only people allowed to speak to Rome like that.

Sina would laugh at him, if Rome had, out loud, used that phrasing: “you are allowed to do for me”. Sina won’t be told what to do by anyone, even his own countrymen. All nations are like that, to an extent, but Sina possesses the power in the entire East, and assuming he would need Rome’s permission for anything is asking for trouble.

Sina is fiery and unapologetic, and fiercely proud of his power.  No,  _ supremacy _ is what he would call it.

Rome can, at least, sympathize with his perspective that everyone outside his empire is a barbarian. Rome knows he’s included in this, but how Sina feels about his supposed barbarism depends on his mood. 

Today, he was obviously feeling friendly.

Rome likes that more than he can put into words-- this dynamic they have that Sina insists he’s fabricated. East and West; two sides of the world meeting in the middle. 

“Don’t flatter yourself by comparing yourself to me. You have a lot to learn, yet,” Sina had said when they had first met, about this comparison. 

Rome watches the long, black hair draping his neck. He’s putting it half up, the other half down his back. 

“So how did it feel? Sealing our relations?” Rome asks.

The brush halts halfway through Sina’s hair. He turns, disgruntled. 

“I’ll seal your  _ mouth _ shut if I hear something like that again. Just ask me if it was good.”

“What did I say?”

“You young ones are making things so complicated,” mutters Sina, turning back to the mirror. “Back in my day, we weren’t using sex as a political bargaining tool. Sex as a means of diplomacy or domination for beings like us is so… unnecessary.”

Rome shrugs. “I like sex as it is. But I like it better when there’s some meaning attached to it. You know, how sex with a stranger is good, but sex when you’re in love is better. Like that.”

“Don’t act like distinction matters,” says Sina. “You’ll take any sex, you lecherous idiot.”

“But it’s really about the distinction of attachment-- that’s exactly it,” says Rome. “And you like sex just as much.”

“So what is this, for you and I? You have to justify our lovemaking as an act of diplomacy?”

“I don’t need to justify anything.”

Rome doesn’t mean to sound defensive, but Sina catches the note of insecurity in his tone. He spins around in his seat, his hair flicking over his shoulder.  He comes back to bed, and climbs on top of him with a beguiling smile. 

Rome reaches out and lays his hand on his slim, hairless chest. 

Rome isn’t one to go for men, but for men like Sina he makes exceptions. Only for exceptionally beautiful men who could be mistaken for women, with the aid of some feminine attire. Even clothed in silk, the beautiful, diaphanous cloth that revealed the shape of his body… with his genitals covered and his long hair spilling over his face, Rome can more easily ignore the lower intonation of Sina’s voice; the lack of feminine plumpness in his limbs.

"It's a preference," says Rome. 

“Whatever makes you feel like a man,” says Sina, amused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some gratuitous Rome x China for this chapter ;)  
> China just seemed fitting for Rome to have this conversation with. He's probably not going to show up again, though.


	4. Chapter 4

The second time Francis encountered him, the first thing Alasdair said was, “come to the island.”

The ‘island’ he was referring to was his homeland, in the north, where the non-Roman barbarians resided.

Alasdair told him this, with a devious smile.

Francis told him back, with an equally devious smile, that he wasn’t worried, if they were anything like Alasdair, and Rome was off strategizing a campaign and not watching him very closely.

As Alasdair had told him before, Rome’s campaign was directed towards invading the southern part of the island. It was a matter of _when_ it would happen.

But this did not sour the air around the two boys as they waded through the ocean, away from the Roman-occupied mainland, wetting their sandals, splashing in the foam among the sounds of seabirds croaking in the grey, misty air surrounding the white cliffs in the distance.

The breeze makes Alasdair’s grey tunic jump and dance around his knees. Francis pulls his cloak tighter around himself in the chill, misty air.

Time escapes him, when he isn’t paying attention. They wander for hours, or days, up the brilliantly green island.

“Where _exactly_ are we going?” Francis thinks to ask, at length.

Alasdair turns to him with a smirk. “To bother Albion.”

“Does he have a name? A _human_ name?”

Alasdair shrugs. “He’s such a runt, I’ven’t bothered naming him. He hasn’t taken to consortin’ much with humans, anyway. He’s a bit of a wild animal still. He hasn’t learnt it ain’t customary to live like a lone wolf in a den. Or… more like a stinky goblin in a burrow.”

Francis giggles.

Alasdair blusters through the thick forest, slapping away branches that cut into his path, and Francis follows.

They wander until they approach the mouth of a cave, almost obscured with peat and foliage.

“Wait here,” directs Alasdair, before pushing aside the greenery and venturing inside.

Shortly after, there’s a muffled yelp, and an “aha!” from Alasdair.

Something crashes, stones scrape and clatter, and two voices begin to shout-- Alasdair’s, and a younger, shriller one. At last, Alasdair returns, crashing back into the daylight, carrying a snarling little boy by the middle.

“The goblin emerges!” he declares, hauling him out of the cave.

The “goblin” continues shrieking in a language Francis doesn’t recognize, flailing his bony arms and legs as Alasdair turns him upside down and holds him by his ankles.

Alasdair cackles, shouting over the din: “This is Albion. He’s learnt to swear lately. I know you can’t understand it, but it’s really something.”

When Albion realizes his brother isn’t alone, he stops fighting and yowling, curiosity momentarily overriding his anger. He blinks at Francis.

Francis blinks back, trying to make sense of the little boy in front of him.

Where dirt hasn’t streaked his skin, Albion is paler than both him and Alasdair. He has no freckles like Alasdair. His skin is unmarked and white as milk. His hair is a wild spray of pale blond, like a chick’s down, but knotted and full of twigs.

He really is a runt, and a nasty-looking one at that.

He’s young, but he has no innocence about him. If he does, it’s hidden beneath his frightening glare, and the downturned corners of his thin mouth. Where Alasdair is boisterous and cheerful, his little brother seems brooding and unpleasant.

Francis wonders if the other siblings, as consecutively younger they get, are gradually less lively than Alasdair, with the sourest being Albion.

More than that, his eyes are striking, as he locks them on Francis and holds him in his sight like an animal, like a clever and cunning little fox, his stare glittering with interest and distrust. Maybe it’s because of his heavy, dark brows that shadow them as he glares, that makes them stand out prominently, but the color is as sharp and brilliant green as the rain-soaked grass that grows in abundance on this island.

Looking at him alongside his brother (when Alasdair turns him rightside up), Alasdair has the same colored eyes. Francis never really noticed them, until he came here.

They’re brilliant now. They look as if they’re directly being provided luminosity and vigor by the flourishing land. Francis thinks they could be. There’s something about being on one’s own land that invigorates nation-people.

A wave of something like excitement comes over him, enveloping him, watching Alasdair with his heels sunk in the muddy grass, smiling broadly, his skin luminously pale, his freckles and red hair burning against his cheeks in the cold, white sunlight. His brilliant green eyes are like the ferns poking out brightly in the mist. 

The excitement goes lower, and curls warmly in Francis’ stomach, and he looks away, feeling vaguely ashamed.

“This is Francis,” says Alasdair to Albion. “He’s Gaul.”

Albion wrinkles his nose, smirks like a demon, then says something in Alasdair’s language that Francis doesn’t understand.

Alasdair knocks his brother over the head with his fist, and shouts something back.

His face is redder, his eyes avoidant, when he turns back to Francis.

“You’re blushing!” Francis exclaims. “What did he say! Something bad?”

Alasdair covers his face with his hand.

Francis pulls at his arm.

“What? What?”

“Damn, it’s nothing,” Alasdair insists, but he’s going redder, and he won’t look at him.

Behind him, Albion is watching Francis again. His mouth is twisted in a smirk.

“What are you looking at?” asks Francis.

“Yeah!” exclaims Alasdair. “Mind your business!”

He flings a handful of dirt at Albion’s smug face.

Albion spits the dirt, and says something probably rude, because it makes Alasdair turn back on him.

“And you’re a wee smart bastard,” he responds, to whatever Albion said.

Albion scampers three steps forward and kicks him in the shin, then bolts in the opposite direction.

This insult causes Alasdair to chase him, tackle him, and sit on him until Albion squeals like a pig.

Heaving a sigh, Francis sits on a large, flat rock and watches them wrestle.

Wetness lands on his nose. Then on his forehead. The leaves patter around him. He glances up, into the treetops. From the sky, rain has begun to fall.

The endless grey of the sky is soothing, as is the cool rain on his face. Francis closes his eyes and stays like this, with his face turned up at the sky.

When he opens them again, Alasdair and Albion are nowhere to be seen.

Alasdair must have chased his little brother back into the cave, and they hadn’t re-emerged. It had gotten silent, save for the rain hitting the trees. Shielding his head with his arms from the increasingly strong rain, Francis wanders over and calls into the mouth, to Alasdair.

He gets silence in response. He pokes his head in further, until he sees them.

They’re huddled in the back. Alasdair is crouched in the dirt, watching Albion clacking rocks together around a tiny fire. The light it casts is so meager, Francis almost doesn’t see the piles of sticks lining the side of the cave. Curious, he walks in, ducking through the low entrance, and picks up one.

When he brings it up to his face, he realizes it’s an arrow, not a stick. He looks closer, around him.

_Arrows._

Arrows, numbering in the thousands, are piled to the sides on the floor of the cave.

From the back of the cave, sparks fly from Albion’s rocks. There is no sound but the echo of stones striking together with a quiet, rhythmic clicking. One of the stones is sharp and slender, and is in the process of becoming sharper.

Albion doesn’t seem to be interested in them anymore. This has taken his interest, instead.

Francis feels hollow with something like pity.

Alasdair has noticed him, and he stands, approaching him.

“We should find a place for the night,” he says.

“Come with us?” Francis calls, at Albion.

“Nay. Leave him to it,” says Alasdair quietly, slipping past him, out into the rain.  
\-----

They’ve gone to a nearby village. A local couple had recognized Alasdair wandering through, and given them a meal and a room for the night.

Time passes differently in this land, this far north. It’s nearly the middle of the night, but the sun has barely sunk below the horizon. Red and purple streak the sky through a crack in the ceiling, but the room is dark.

Next to him on the rabbit skin pelt, Alasdair turns over to face him.

“Wha’d you think?” he asks with a yawn.

Francis turns over, and their knees knock together.

He frowns, but realizes Alasdair might not be able to see it. He can barely make out the lines of Alasdair’s face in the dim light.

“Shouldn’t we have helped him?” asks Francis.

“He doesn’t want help. Leave him some pride,” Alasdair says, and Francis can imagine, by his gruff tone, than he’s frowning as well.

“He’s so small though.”

“You’re not one to judge strength are you? Not when you couldn’t fight back.”

Francis is tense and silent.

“Sorry,” Alasdair says quickly, but petulantly, muffled in his arm.

Francis knows he’s worried about his brother and was only leaping to his defense, but he still turns over, away from Alasdair, with a huff.

The fur underneath them rustles with how fast Alasdair pushes himself up.

“I said I’m sorry! I don’t mean anything by it.”

Francis ignores him. Alasdair takes his shoulder and shakes it.

“Are you mad now?” he asks.

“I want to go to sleep,” mutters Francis.

Alasdair heaves a sigh and flops down. His back presses against Francis’. Like an apology. His warmth against Francis’ side is making him drowsy.

It’s comforting. Francis realizes he’s not even very angry at him. Instead, it seems like a game; something good, to have Alasdair worry about how he feels.

He feels as though he’s remaining angry just to start something with Alasdair. Being petulant to get his attention, and to test the limits of his loyalty.

For reasons he can’t explain, he wants Alasdair’s attention on _him_ only _._

The heat of a blush seeps into his face, and he’s glad for the night that overwhelms the room, so Alasdair can’t see the color his ears are turning.

“Am I vain?” he whispers to the darkness.

Alasdair‘s voice is sluggish with sleep. “S’a strange thing to worry about,” he murmurs.

Francis closes his eyes, and listens to Alasdair’s breathing even out.

The solid dark behind his eyelids conjures images of dark, flowing hair… and then, the discomfiting encounter between two people, Rome and Sina, moving together in a bed. His thoughts make him uncertain of being in bed with Alasdair. He doesn’t understand why, though. He feels embarrassed once he thinks about it. Like maybe they shouldn’t be together, this close.

He swallows, and ignores that thought.

The black-haired man, Sina, was pretty, too. Pretty like a girl. Pretty in the same way he is.

Within Rome’s villa, there were all sorts of beautiful women, but no men like Sina.

Aside from in his armies, Rome didn’t seem to have many ugly or masculine people in his personal employ. He seemed to like being surrounded by beauty.

Hedonistic bastard. Francis didn’t know what else he expected from someone like him.

Francis drifts off to sleep thinking about Sina’s eyes, and the scrutinizing look he gave him, before Rome stepped around the door and blocked him from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know why I imagined baby England as some kind of cave hobo, but here he is.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a reallllllly long time to get out, because I felt like it was missing something, but I wasn't sure what. Now that I've figured out what I wanted to write, here's the next chapter!

Rome has conquered Albion, but is struggling to advance. 

Francis still worries.

Sneaking out to see Alasdair has become routine, now that Rome has established a route across the sea. Rome is none the wiser, and Francis is glad to have his own secret.

But his worry, ever-present, is compounded by another feeling. 

Speaking to Alasdair has suddenly become hard. Francis can’t think of what to say without his tongue sluggishly sticking to the words like he’s eaten a mouthful of honeycomb.

He’s careful of what he says, because Alasdair might think he’s silly.

He keeps thinking about it. Alasdair’s warmth, his larger body next to his in bed. How strong and impetuous he is, filled with the vigor of his land-- one that is free and unconquered.

Francis can’t help but feel very small and insignificant in comparison, smothered under Rome’s guardianship.

Why does Alasdair bother with someone like him?

Just because they’re nations of around the same age? 

The thought makes his throat clench like he’s swallowed a boulder.

He’s never had a nation-friend around his same age, and he doesn’t want to lose him. He’d go to great lengths to preserve what he’s made with Alasdair.

He feels happy with him.

So Francis tries to sneak out from the villa as often as possible to see him, but it’s harder, with the battles. 

Even without the men fighting, the wind and cold grey air and rugged terrain of the Scottish highlands provide miles of obstacles. 

Today, Alasdair arrives to meet him, shirtless and with blue paint on his face and chest.

“You have something on your face,” teases Francis. Alasdair laughs and pushes his hand away when Francis rubs his cheek and smears the paint.

“What are you doing here?” asks Alasdair. “You could get caught.”

“Rome’s building a wall,” says Francis breathlessly. 

Alasdair rolls his eyes. “Yeah, so I dinnae go and finish him off. It’s for his own safety.”

“Please,” implores Francis, grasping his arm. “I don’t want us to be separated.”

“It’s for a short time,” says Alasdair. He presses his forehead to Francis’. “Don’t you worry.”

A moment later, Alasdair is kissing him.

His lips are warm. Francis’ heart hammers. His body feels like it’s going to drift up, and up. 

After they separate, slowly, delicately, unsurely, he feels like he can’t breathe.

They silently tremble, with their mouths close. Alasdair is breathing shallowly too.

Francis goes in and presses their lips together again.

He’s too enthusiastic. Their mouths are open this time and it’s less graceful, wetter, and Francis jerks back with embarrassment when his tongue accidentally slips against Alasdair’s.

Alasdair is red in the face too. He looks dazed, though impressed.

“That’s… really something,” he says approvingly, wiping his mouth. “I didn’t know it was possible to kiss like that.” 

His expectant tone causes Francis to turn and flee in the opposite direction, ignoring all of his pleas to come back. 

As he races across the land and into the cover of the forest, something catches his eye. From behind a skinny tree, there’s a little flash of green that doesn’t quite match the colors of the surrounding leaves.

Francis scrapes his knees diving to tackle Albion.

“You followed me!” he accuses.

Even with the wind knocked out of him, Albion has the nerve to keep cackling, jeering and pointing even as Francis does his best to wrestle him into quiet submission. 

“You snuck out to kiss him!” he laughs. 

“I didn’t! You are a rat!”

“I’ll tell Rome,” simpers Albion.

Even though Albion wouldn’t. He hated Rome just as much. 

“And a  _ shit,”  _ adds Francis, anyway. 

“My brother is gross,” protests Albion, eyes wide with earnest concern. “Why were you kissing him?”

“I wasn’t.”

“You  _ were.  _ I saw you. You’re going to get married, aren’t you?” he asks, very confidently.

Francis grits his teeth and remembers Albion is young. 

“You don’t know anything about any of that.”

“You mean kissing?”

“Yeah. That’s not for someone your age to know about,” Francis declares. He gets off of Albion and stomps away.

He slumps down against a tree, scraping his back on the bark. While he tries to calm his agitated heart, he thinks to himself about what to do next.

He doesn’t know what to do, himself. About kissing or love, or any of those things adults did. 

He can’t face Alasdair, not knowing that. Clearly, Alasdair expected something more of him, kissing him first. And then, when he met his tongue halfway...

Francis curls his knees up to his chest and presses his hot face into his arms.

It was a mistake for Alasdair to think he knew what he was doing. And yet, seeing Alasdair’s red cheeks, bright with excitement and expectation after the second, deeper kiss… 

It made him feel good that Alasdair thought he was the one taking the lead; who knew everything in these matters of love. Between them, Francis had been designated the mature, knowledgeable one.

Even though that was far from the truth.

In the wake of his shame and self-conflict, he avoids seeing Alasdair in the next months. 

Soon, a wall goes up between them, and Francis can’t see Alasdair anymore, but is stuck with Albion. 

Whenever he looks at Albion’s green eyes, a bit duller than he remembers Alasdair’s being, his heart aches.

\-------

After a time, it becomes too much to stand. 

He tells the women servants in the villa about his aching heart, because he doesn’t know who else to talk to.

He tries to be secretive about who the aching in his heart is directed at, because Alasdair is so distinctive, with his red hair and brash composure. He’s the only nation-person Francis knows with red hair. And, should this gossip reach Rome’s ears, he would immediately know what was happening.

The thought of Rome knowing makes his gut clench.

Alasdair also becomes a ‘she’. Because humans don’t always understand certain types of love. 

“Love”...

Before this, Francis had only felt one type of love-- love for his mother. That isn’t the same type of love as he has for Alasdair. The maternal love never felt uncertain, or made him worried.

But this one warms him. Is almost dizzying. Makes his palms sweat.

“It’s romantic love, as opposed to platonic love,” the servants explain.

And all Francis can think is that he still has no idea about any of this. 

But he can never, ever face Alasdair again if he doesn’t know about how to show his love.

In the middle of his brooding, he remembers that Rome, at one point, was in the middle of explaining about love to him. 

Rome seems to know something about this kind of love. The physical, heart pounding kind. The one Francis is feeling, sweeping through his whole body and leaving him breathless and warm, like he’s sprinted without rest. The one that takes stamina and movement, where bodies press close and entwine. The love that involves privacy, intimacy and secrecy. Like it’s a miraculous event for two people alone.

From the conversations he’s heard around the villa, he knows it’s “sex”, but the meaning is lost on him, other than it is something adults do to feel good together. To lie above and to lie beneath, and do something in between.

As long as he could remember, there was a certain expectation people had about him, regarding his appearance, and it has something to do with sex.

There’s the same expectation here as well. From the servants, from Rome’s important visitors, and from Rome himself. 

The compliments about his beauty, the smiles with expectation behind them, and long, careful stares over his body, like people are searching for something-- all of these gestures are tied up in his appearance alone.

Francis knows beauty is worth something, and can be bartered, akin to a currency, but he doesn’t know how to exchange it. 

Sometimes he gets a free sweet or a lowered price from the marketplace simply because the vendor liked the look of him. But Francis suspects there’s more to it, that there’s some active part of it on his behalf that he can utilize, to reap attention for his own benefit.

“You’re beautiful. Use it on Rome,” the servants advise yet again, as he airs bed linens alongside them. “A boy with your uncommon beauty is sought-after. He’ll give you anything you want.”

“How do I… use it?” asks Francis, struggling to fold together the corners of a wide swath of linen.

“Certain words and actions arouse powerful feelings in men… when they are given by a beautiful person.”

Then the advice comes, exactly the kind of direction that Francis was hoping to hear: 

“For example, lie back on the  _ lectus _ like you aren’t expecting anything. But prop your knee up, so your tunic slides away from your leg just so… Then, look up through your eyelashes like you want something very badly. Talk softly. Ask for anything. You are a child of Venus. Carefree because you’re beautiful, and powerful because you hold the key to men’s weakness.”

He was Rome’s weakness. Showing love to Rome would just seem like he was showing loyalty, when he had an ulterior motive to take advantage of his knowledge and learn for Alasdair.

As the makings of a plan came together in his mind, his earlier feelings of inadequacy began to deteriorate.

He was desirable. He had something Rome admired, otherwise he would not be worth conquering.

He was a child of Venus, with the power to charm the heart of any man he wanted.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The objectionable chapter. Nothing explicit, but still. Underage.

When Rome came in and saw him on his  _ lectus _ , he stood in the entrance to the room for a long time, staring. 

“Teach me about love,” says Francis. 

“Who put you up to this?” accuses Rome.

He’s smiling, but it’s uncertain and stiff. He keeps darting his eyes everywhere  _ but  _ Francis. It makes Francis feel powerful. He speaks softly, and props his arm over his head.

“You said you know how to make someone love you. Why haven’t you made me? It would be easy, wouldn’t it? Because you’re so powerful, right?”

“I don’t think you…”

“You’re hiding something from me. You’re avoiding me. I’m not just a territory, am I?” asks Francis. “I have something you want.”

Rome’s expression dissolves into something unreadable.

“You’re still small,” he said. “That’s why…”

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” said Francis.

“So you want me to teach you? You’re more mature than I expected,” concedes Rome.

He finally comes over, and Francis feels prone and tiny, laid out on his back as Rome’s shadow sweeps over him, blotting out the flickering light from the oil lamps.

“Are you really a virgin, or is this an act?” asks Rome.

“What’s a virgin?” responds Francis.

Rome laughs uncomfortably, looks up at the ceiling, and rubs the bridge of his nose.

“I can’t tell. Are you being serious, or…?” he sighs, trailing off. 

He sits beside him, propping Francis’ legs up on his lap.

“I’ve never been together with someone the way you have,” says Francis. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You must know a little, having lived as long as you have?” asks Rome. 

Rome’s hand rests on his knee, gripping. Francis swallows his trepidation, and reminds himself that this is necessary.  

“I know how to kiss,” he mutters. Rome’s hand slides higher up his leg. Higher, higher still, until he’s at the furthest point of his thigh, beneath his tunic. His thumb presses into the hollow where his thigh becomes his pelvis. His stare is hard, intent, holding Francis’ gaze like he’s daring him to look away. Stubbornly, Francis stares him down. 

“Show me,” Rome whispers. 

\-----

In the silence and darkness afterwards, Rome sits up on the linen cover, and reaches over to touch Francis’ cheek. His touch is light and tentative. He must think he’s asleep.

Hair slides out of his eyes and is tucked behind his ear. The scent of Rome’s skin; his sweat, is on his fingers. Air cools his damp face as it’s exposed.

He’s sore. He had been made to feel giddy, wound up and then let loose, so there is no strength left in his body. 

Just once, just one time, he’d been overcome. Rome had held him and gone inside him, and Francis didn’t think he could be overcome like that again. 

“Her son was easy, though,” murmurs Rome, stroking his cheek. 

It’s so quiet, Francis almost thinks he imagined it.

_ Though.  _

That implication burns a hole in his stomach, and it sears and bubbles.

_ Despite what?  _

His mother couldn’t resist, as he recalls. At the end of the battle, as Francis spied through the flap of Rome’s tent, she had been facedown over the arm of his  _ lectus _ , limp, with blood matted in her blonde hair. There was a steady, red trickle from her side, splashing out harder every time Rome pushed in. 

Afterwards, she didn’t get up. 

Despite the unfavorable odds, in the end, she resisted. And that was her downfall. Was it due to that stubbornness that she was dead, and Francis only alive because Rome wills it? Because Rome thinks he is malleable? Creating a new Gaul in the Roman image; a submissive and beautiful one, who can feel only pleasure; who doesn’t have the intellect or the strength to make his body, his land, his people, repulsed at what he’s been given?

Francis had already been feeling the incorporation of Roman language, of culture, seeping in, and his own bleeding out. Rome has pried him apart, rent him in two, exposing a weakness Francis hadn’t known he’d possessed.

He was not strong enough.

_ But, no!,  _ he thinks emphatically, dragging his thoughts away from those of self-pity. It wasn’t for Rome’s sake that he let him have his way. Anger overtakes him, knowing that Rome thinks he’s made a show of deference. Francis isn’t even sure what this supposed act of love has to do with submitting. 

_ This was for Alasdair. How dare you think it’s for you. _

Despite this justification, he wonders if he has inadvertently done something unforgivable. 

 

The answer becomes clear soon enough.

In exchange for learning how to be a lover, he had acquired painful knowledge. 

He couldn’t block it out, now that he was ken to the kind of knowledge regarding adult love; these painful truths about the desires of men, and conquest, and his mother’s downfall, and the expectations and nuances surrounding sex.

The name for being overcome, the hot pleasure he had felt and how that was somehow congruent with his beauty, and the word for exactly what Rome had done to his mother-- in gaining this fearful knowledge, he’d left himself vulnerable to the perceptions of everyone.

The truth was, the currency of his body and appearance was worth a lot, and others’ opinion of him superseded anything he believed about himself personally.

Because he realizes it doesn’t matter what his purpose was in doing it, what matters is the opinion of him— that’s how he’ll be seen from now on. His enjoyment of the act had become synonymous with his beauty, and he was more sought after than ever. But it had become dangerous, the eyes searching him out, the hot stares like snakes ready to strike. 

The servants in the villa call him “mature” now. “Lustful”.

He’s suddenly treated differently. Not with gentleness, but like he’s entered a new world. They begin using new language, giving him advice about how to be seductive, like he holds some secret power.

Francis is overwhelmed, he can’t believe it was possible to change so much with one act.

 

In a panic, he goes back to Rome and accuses him of giving him a reputation he never wanted. 

“I never said anything,” replies Rome. “You told the servants your plans, and the servants gossip. People gossip. You did this yourself. You’re like me. You have an inclination towards love.”

“I’m not like you. You ruined me,” accuses Francis.

“And who came to me? You’re the one who actively sought out that kind of knowledge rather than keeping your head down chastely. That will follow you forever,” says Rome. 

“This isn’t love! You couldn’t love anyone!” shouts Francis.

\-----

Francis has no idea how to approach Alasdair with this. To use his beauty like currency, the way he had learned. At the least, Alasdair will see his maturity. He’d become so different, surely he had a different air around himself now.

He just wants to be with Alasdair. To be close to him. 

Alasdair’s look of expectation long ago was different. It wasn’t possessive, snakelike. It was joyful and hopeful. Happy. 

Francis finds Alasdair and attempts to seduce him. But he ends up breaking into tears. 

“I wanted to do something for you, but I’ve become someone I don’t recognize,” he explains. “I’m scared. Everyone thinks I’m marked by an inclination towards love, and there’s the expectation that I’ll give it to anyone. But I won’t! It’s only supposed to be for you.”

“Listen,” says Alasdair, firmly. “Not just anyone would have put themselves through that because they cared about me so much. That’s powerfully loving.”

Francis wipes his eyes.

“I don’t deserve you. I’m a traitor.”

But to his surprise, he gets sympathy. And  _ anger.  _

“I’ll kill him for making you cry,” Alasdair keeps repeating angrily. “I’ll kill him.”

Francis keeps shaking his head and weeping until Alasdair stops repeating it. He’s stiff, but his body seethes with anger. Francis can feel his palm tense like a bowstring against his shoulder.

His other hand…

Francis’ heart thumps.

They’ve been holding hands. Alasdair’s hand has been entwined with his and Francis didn’t realize it. Alasdair squeezes his hand and wraps his other arm around him. 

Francis sinks desperately into his embrace, and feels like his heart is going to burst.

 


	7. Chapter 7

  
Paris, 1940

-  
The week after Arthur abandoned Dunkerque had been the longest in Francis’ memory.

It happened too quickly. A humiliating takeover. Not going down swinging, but with a whimper.

The six short weeks between relative normalcy, and having Ludwig dragging him by the back of his coat into an alley, felt like an eternity.

Ludwig had had a firm hold on the back of the collar, but his hand slipped and he grabbed onto his hair instead.

Francis was hauled away like that, cursing at him.

“Merde! Of all the things!”

“It’s reasonable for someone to go for long hair first, in a fight,” says Ludwig, confirming his intention. “You’re really prizing your vanity over practicality? It’s no wonder you lost.”

“You’re a bastard,” snarls Francis.

Ludwig sinks a fist into his gut, and Francis doubles over. When he gets up, he’s punched in the face and stumbles back against the wall of the alley.

Ludwig grabs the back of his neck and jerks him around, slamming him face first against the stone.

Spit and blood are sliding out of Francis’ open mouth, because he’s gasping for breath, panting at the pain.

Ludwig is strong.

His leather glove is sticky tight around the back of his neck, his big hand clamped down, fingers rigid. In his powerful grip, Francis cannot move.

His bulk towers over him, crushing him.

Francis’ heart thunders in his ears as the thin muzzle of a luger stabs the small of his back.

“I take it you won’t be cutting my hair like the rest of your prisoners,” he whispers to Ludwig.

“Something to grab you by,” says Ludwig, and Francis thinks that sounds suggestive, even though it was said in a flat tone.

“Then, after you rape me?” mocks Francis.

There is a fully resolved moment of adjustment behind him, as Ludwig aims the pistol down and shoots him in the back of the knee. The empty shell clatters on the bricks, and Francis crumples with a moan.

Heat spreads through his shattered kneecap. He cannot stand. The bullet passed all the way through his leg. He sees the wet splatter below, the off-red gleam of moisture that didn’t match the color of the bricks. The leg of his trousers fills with blood.

He lays sideways beneath Ludwig, his wounded leg splayed limply, his hair fanned out in golden curls on the damp stone. It is indescribably frightening, being attacked by Germany. It is not due to his power, nor his physical strength, but his attitude.

He’s deathly serious, unflinching. Fully resolved to injure and subdue without remorse, and with no tolerance for the slightest resistance.

Francis wonders if that is a product of the Reich, and how much is Ludwig himself. How much of Ludwig remains, and how much of France will remain when this is over?

Francis wants to taunt him. Say he’s too young of a country to be thinking he’s the next Rome, but Ludwig is old at heart. His young body is merely a vessel for the spirit of the thousand year-old empire that burns inside, and the reincarnation it stands to become.

Ludwig stoops and thumbs the blood off Francis’ swollen lips.

“This is the beloved Marianne, huh? Rolls over like a dog.”

Then he grabs him by the hair again and drives a knee between his splayed legs, pressing down on top of him.

“Non,” Francis protests into Ludwig’s shoulder, beating his fists against his back. His injured leg is jostled as Ludwig positions himself, bearing down, and Francis cries out in pain.

The black leather coat on his broad back slips under his fingers. Francis jerks his hips up, but can’t throw him off; can’t even move him. He’s solid.

Ludwig’s face is impassive; livid white with a strong jaw. He stares down his sharp nose with bitterly cold blue eyes.

“That’s enough,” he orders.

He roughly brushes a curl behind Francis’ ear, following the motion forward to entangle his fingers in his hair. They lock around the strands, and he guides his head back with a jerk of his fist.

“Pull it harder,” Francis mocks, his voice hoarse from the pain.

Ludwig doesn’t do any more than hold him there, with Francis’ head tilted so far back he can only look behind him, at the dirty wall. Anger sears his chest.

He can feel Ludwig’s breath against his neck. His voice rumbles,

“At least you have the decency to put up a token resistance. You’re still a slut.”

Once he’s inside him, Ludwig pretends he’s detached, but the heat of it, the vigor, the harsh panting and powerful thrusts implicate a revenge-fuck, and Francis thinks _Of course… Versailles._ _Of course he would take pleasure in something like this. It’s erotic to tie winning and rape of the loser together. If that is his intention with this._

That was the worst of this— not knowing Ludwig’s intention for him.

He thought he would be dulled to the humiliation and emotional pain of the act itself, because it has happened before, many times in the past, and it’s just an act, a quick few minutes, but due to the uncertainty, it is horrible this time. How many times, in this long life, has he had to fight for his freedom?

It hurts to think that this could be the time France does not re-emerge from the carnage of rebellion as France.

“Like I expected,” says Ludwig, after he finishes, “this has been easy for you, Frankenreich. You’re skilled at lying on your back.”

It’s not venomous, just something Ludwig is saying like he’s taking inventory. Ludwig is pleased with himself, even though his comportment as he makes himself decent again is as stoic and severe as usual.

“This feels familiar,” murmurs Francis, just before rolling to his side to vomit onto the pavement.

His insides roil. A seed has been planted inside him. It entraps him in his own body, in his own land.

His will to resist weakens. He understands that this is more than an invasion. He wishes he could have died. Ludwig’s intent is worse than death. The transformation suppresses him, containing him for Germany’s purpose. He is one more nation-sacrifice in the arsenal of the Third Reich.

“You will come to find it is better this way,” says Ludwig, as the man who would become Vichy writhes at his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say but OW the edge?
> 
> I dipped real hard into OG aph for some of these chapter themes…  
> Holy Roman Empire? I haven’t heard that name in years… 
> 
> It didn’t feel complete after the last chapter, and something in the back of my mind was like “Oh!! 1940s Germany!!!” So that’s how I decided to tie it together, with Nazi Germany as the Third Rome, the perpetrator of another rape… almost like fulfilling a prophecy.  
> Idk if it’s more or less confusing, but I feel like it made everything come full circle at least, perpetuating the image of Francis as Rome anticipated, even up to relatively modern times? I don’t know, something about that prophetic sort of personality curse(?) gives me chills.  
> Just thinking of Rome as the harbinger of fate for conquered territories, like in terms of culture and the future, has the magical realism implications that I’ve always kind of liked about aph. It wasn’t that obvious in the fic, unfortunately, it was more like Rome was just saying shit and it happened to come true, rather than he was the decider of fate and had that power to change it...
> 
> Aside from all that, this chapter got me thinking about how other countries’ dynastic connections to the Roman Empire are really fascinating.  
> Like… someone give me a fic about HRE and Orthodox Catholic Russia, and the Serbian empire all fighting over who’s entitled to the true paternal connection.  
> I’ve even seen America compared to the Roman empire. Like in terms of the government and organization as a unified nation-state that’s not bound together by race, and not by ancestral claim. Just by imitation. 
> 
> Anyway, if you’ve read this far, thanks and I hope you enjoyed the fic.


End file.
